BAD FICTION #3 – The Last Slice of Pizza // Wayne Scheer

Another bad fiction, this one by Wayne Scheer and heavy-loaded with similes…

If you want to know about the good stuff Wayne writes, check out his bio literally one line below this one:

Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. He’s published stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories, http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/revealing_moments. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.

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The Last Slice of Pizza

Elise Muldenhauer planned on remaining a virgin until she married. Then she saw John Bremen and her plans flew out the window like stale air. One look at him and she knew her time as a virgin would expire like the parking meter in front of the Student Center after one hour. This was John’s view of how the world spun.

Who could blame her? John believed. All the coeds at Fulton Community College hungered for him, as if he were a slice of pizza and they had stayed up all night getting high.

True, none had grabbed for the last John-slice since his enrollment, but that was only because they were all being polite. John knew himself to be the center of every female’s attention span.

“See that one?” John told Alex, his best bud, pointing to Elise who looked like Adonis only female. “A real tease. I hear she says she’s holding out for Mr. Right.”

John vowed to knock Miss High and Mighty down a peg to his level.

He played it cool, like the inside of a freezer in Alaska in the middle of winter. He knew she’d break down like an old Chevy, wanting him to check under her hood.

Elise looked good. Dark hair cascaded down to the middle of her back, reminding him of a waterfall if water was black. There was something deep and mysterious about her eyes, a crypt you know is full of treasure but you don’t dare explore unless you’re ready for trouble, like Indiana Jones.

He knew if he just waited patiently, like hunters waiting for Bambi to prance in front of them so they could mount her, she would be his.

The trouble was she was playing it cool, too. So cool, she wouldn’t even give him the time of day when he asked for it, claiming she didn’t have a watch.

But even ice thaws when it’s exposed to heat, and John knew he was so hot he could melt the sun if it was made of ice and not molten gas.

It finally happened. After his Body Conditioning class, opportunity knocked so loud a deaf person could hear it or, at least, feel the vibration. He wore his cut-away T-shirt and work-out shorts, his Nikes and black socks. With his biceps bulging and brown hair slicked back with sweat because he didn’t like to shower with other guys, Miss-I-Want-To-Wait-Until-I’m-Married held her breath so as not to disclose her desire for him. Like a wild bear in search of food, and finding the slice of pizza that was John, she ravished him with her eyes.

John stayed in control, not wanting to be the first to melt. With his chest puffed and his head held high, he walked right up to her and suavely asked, “Howya doin?”

She lost her words, like an English major in a calculus class. Finally, she stammered into coherence. “Fine.”

John, of course, had the perfect retort. “I know I am, but what are you?”

Again, Elise stared, both bewildered, dumbfounded and dismayed. Now she was in Advanced Calculus. She offered John a slight smile while turning to a friend who happened to walk by at that very moment. John saw the mysterious smile turn into a Cheshire cat grin, followed by an outright giggle. It reminded him of how the wave gets going at the ballpark.

John knew they were giggling about him because they were so obviously hungry for pizza, especially since he felt them staring at his glutinous maximums.

Elise wanted him. They both wanted him.

John felt like a conquering army. He knew he was hearing the nervous laughter of coeds about to be conquered.

This story is as strong as Hercules tearing down the pillars between the two sexes only to be crushed by the weight of his endeavor like a nearsighted dung beetle mistaking a Brontosaurus for an elephant. Write on, Wayne. Write on.

I started writing my favorite over-the-top similes down here, but when they got to ten, I decided it was pointless. They *all* suck 😀 As one who knows the other side of your writing, Wayne, I can imagine how fun this must’ve been to write. Did you giggle to yourself as you crafted these chips of pyrite? Laugh out loud? Well… I did 🙂